


if not victory

by bloodletter



Category: The Favourite (2018)
Genre: F/F, Face Slapping, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 08:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17700794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodletter/pseuds/bloodletter
Summary: “The black makes you look pale.”“It was a funeral. Pale is appropriate.” Abigail's mouth twisted in a funny little knot of a smile. “Were you occupied with something urgent, or did you just not receive the address?”





	if not victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arbitrarily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarily/gifts).



On the street below the window, children squabbled behind their mother’s skirts and a crow rummaged through refuse. London was dismal. She had missed it.

Sarah did not turn as the door opened. There was no need to look her visitor in the face. She knew who had come calling, even before she had been announced. Instead, she crossed her arms over her stomach for warmth, still not having readjusted to the dampness, and asked the room at large, “Did you come here straight from the church?”

“Lady Marlborough.” In the record of Sarah's memory, Abigail’s voice—recalled countless times in recent years—was the most reedy, simpering thing she could imagine, but when she heard it then Sarah was forced to admit to herself that it had, at one time, sounded pleasing to her, too.

Sarah's head swiveled around just enough to take in the sight of her guest, the rest of her body remaining fixed in place. When their eyes met, Abigail inclined her head and gave a half-hearted curtsey, her eyes glinting with a dark fox-light. There was a time Sarah could have had her whipped for it. The idea still tingled.

“The black makes you look pale.” 

“It was a funeral. Pale is appropriate.” Abigail's mouth twisted in a funny little knot of a smile. She had never been particularly beautiful, but the handful of years since they'd last seen each other had taken a toll. Her under-eyes were puffy from what looked like a combination of exhaustion and poorly performed tears. When Sarah was that age, she'd kept herself together better than that. Abigail picked a golden hair off her bodice between pinched thumb and forefinger; she let it fall on the floor in Sarah's full view before she carried on. “Were you occupied with something urgent, or did you just not receive the address?”

"I had other engagements."

"I hope they knew how lucky they are, to be considered more important than a queen." Sarah hadn't moved an inch from her place by the window. Abigail wove a path across the floor between them, never looking away from Sarah’s face. “You look well yourself. The continent agreed with you?”

Exile was exile. “Yes, but I’m glad to be home.”

From closer up, Sarah could see that the glint in Abigail's eye was at least part drunkenness. She imagined, for a moment, Abigail swaying on her feet inside the chapel, and allowed herself a smile. Abigail caught it in the air, and returned it with her own: not knotted anymore, but long and wide. Weary but sated. “Not glad enough to pay your respects, however, Mrs. Freeman?”

She was close enough for Sarah to slap. Sarah did. Immediately after the swing, Sarah returned her hand to Abigail's mouth, where she held it tight across the reddening skin. “You little vulture—”

Abigail snapped her teeth together against the skin of Sarah’s palm, and Sarah’s hand retracted instinctively. Abigail hissed, “I thought you might like to hear it. It having been such a long time.”

With Anne in the grave, there was no longer anything to conceal. They had seen each other's true faces. No use pretending. 

Even through layers of skirts, Sarah could feel Abigail's warmth when Abigail thrust her knee between Sarah's thighs. Blood rushed south, despite herself. As if from a distance, Sarah heard the sound of her own back hitting the pane.

She grabbed Abigail by the throat. “Not in front of the window—”

Abigail tilted her head to the side. A curl had fallen loose from its pin. Her mouth was red as the floor of a butcher’s. Her right hand went up to seize Sarah’s wrist, but she didn’t pull her hand away. On the contrary: she dug her nails in. Four perfect crescents in her skin, keeping Sarah on the precipice. “In the chair, then? Would that be nostalgic for you? I can sit on your lap this time, if you’d like to try it the other way around.”

Sarah pushed her free hand down the front of Abigail’s gown, where her tits were straining to be free. She tweaked a nipple harshly. Abigail didn’t flinch. “Did you come all the way here for this? Is Masham not giving you what you need?”

Abigail tipped her head back, her eyes rolling upwards and half-closed. “Masham’s a dear, but I always was curious what about you had her so cuntstruck. If I don’t take my chance now, you might run back to Zurich before I get the chance to find out.”

She could have her thrown out, still. Needed only to ring a bell. But the day had been very long, and she’d watched out the window all day, as if she could hear the funeral procession on the other side of the city. She couldn’t attend. Humiliation she could bear, but abandonment never. Better to leave, and never return. But for all that, she still ached. She pulled her hand free of Abigail’s gown, placed it on her shoulder, and pushed her down to her knees.

“If you stay down, the window doesn’t matter. I heard you can do interesting things with your tongue.”


End file.
